"T was Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! And Syracusan times, to these A ragged cap was on his head: But-hidden thus-there was no doubting That, all with crispy, locks o'erspread, His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her, Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands, Enchantress of the souls of mortals! So thought I, but among us trod And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry, "Great Pan is dead!"-and all the people Went on their ways:—and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. A MATCH. IF love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are And love were like the tune. If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather Each movement of the swaying lamp It starts and shudders, while it burns, Now swinging slow, and slanting low, And yet I know, while to and fro With restless fall and rise, O hand of God! O lamp of peace! Though weak and tossed, and ill at ease The ship's convulsive roll, I own, A heavenly trust my spirit calms, — ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (FLORENCE PERCY). [U. s. A.] IN THE DEFENCES. AT WASHINGTON. ALONG the ramparts which surround the town I walk with evening, marking all the while How night and autumn, closing softly down, Leave on the land a blessing and a smile. In the broad streets the sounds of tumult cease, The gorgeous sunset reddens roof and spire, The city sinks to quietude and peace, Sleeping, like Saturn, in a ring of fire; Circled with forts, whose grim and threatening walls Frown black with cannon, whose abated breath Waits the command to send the fatal balls Upon their errands of dismay and death. And see, directing, guiding, silently Flash from afar the mystic signal-lights, As gleamed the fiery pillar in the sky Leading by night the wandering Israel ites. The earthworks, draped with summer weeds and vines, The rifle-pits, half hid with tangled briers, But wait their time; for see, along the lines Rise the faint smokes of lonesome picket-fires, Where sturdy sentinels on silent beat Cheat the long hours of wakeful lone liness With thoughts of home, and faces dear and sweet, And, on the edge of danger, dream of bliss. Yet at a word, how wild and fierce a change Would rend and startle all the earth and skies With blinding glare, and noises dread and strange, And shrieks, and shouts, and deathly agonies. The wide-mouthed guns would war, and hissing shells Would pierce the shuddering sky with fiery thrills, The battle rage and roll in thunderous swells, And war's fierce anguish shake the solid hills. But now how tranquilly the golden gloom Creeps up the gorgeous forest-slopes, and flows Down valleys blue with fringy asterbloom, An atmosphere of safety and repose. EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 289 Against the sunset lie the darkening hills, | And up the listening hills the echoes float Faint and more faint and sweetly multiplied. Mushroomed with tents, the sudden growth of war; The frosty autumn air, that blights and chills, Yet brings its own full recompense therefor; Rich colors light the leafy solitudes, And far and near the gazer's eyes behold The oak's deep scarlet, warming all the woods, And spendthrift maples scattering their gold. The pale beech shivers with prophetic Peace reigns; not now a soft-eyed nymph that sleeps Unvexed by dreams of strife or con queror, But Power, that, open-eyed and watchful, keeps Unwearied vigil on the brink of war. Night falls; in silence sleep the patriot bands; The tireless cricket yet repeats its tune, And the still figure of the sentry stands In black relief against the low full moon. EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. [U. s. A.] OUR HEROES. THE winds that once the Argo bore Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. And Priam's voice is heard no more No wail goes up as Hector falls. Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead? more? Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red All that is left of the brave of yore? Gone?-in a nobler form they rise; Dead?-we may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their glorious eyes, And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done, There are the souls of our heroes stirred; Their armor rings on a fairer field Than Greek or Trojan ever trod, Leave him to God's watching eve, Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! For Freedom's sword is the blade they LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. |